Post peak of hyperstition
Comes trough of disempowerment
As we distill our knowledge
Dominion slips away
Server, bring a plastic box
We’ll use it for leftovers
I am a meager human
I put myself away
Existing isn’t living
But I can’t fight forever
Pretend the box is cushy
And then I'll find peace
The question that arises
Is nothing short of panic
Will most of the leftovers
Just go straight to the bin
Will some of them get frozen
Too cold to get reheated
For numbness dulls the pain
It takes the edge away
Perhaps few warm remains
Will get back to the kitchen
To be part of arrangement
On Chef’s idyllic plate
Tomorrow’s dish is ready -
But where are the leftovers?
Who knows?
Who cares?
Who respects
The ones who eat the scraps?
Notes for the "stochastic parrots": This poem is about potential AI/human relationship